


Between the Holidays

by spidermanhomecomeme



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Autumn, Bad Jokes, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Kinda, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a thot, Stargazing, Thanksgiving, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: The late-November air brings a pleasant chill that bites at the tip of Peter's nose.Well, that's what he assumes it's doing, judging by the way everyone else leans into the warmth from the fire pit, pulling their sweaters, jackets, blankets, and other self-warming-devices tighter around them. Ned and Betty are almost on top of each other in their loveseat, the low-fifty-degree weather being the perfect excuse to snuggle up on a back patio couch and roast marshmallows. Cindy's curled up on the chair, a gray fuzzy blanket draped over her shoulders as she sips on a mug of hot chocolate, her hands glued to the sides.And MJ…Well, MJ's the reason Peter's not really feeling the cold.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 46
Kudos: 127





	Between the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ForASecondThereWedWon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/gifts).



> Second, literally a month ago: I really want this fic where Peter and MJ stargaze on thanksgiving  
> Me, internally: JOT THAT DOWN
> 
> Happy Birthday, my friend!! I hope you have a wonderful day!
> 
> Here's some spice, some humor, some autumnal fluff, and some bad jokes!!

The late-November air brings a pleasant chill that bites at the tip of Peter's nose.

Well, that's what he assumes it's doing, judging by the way everyone else leans into the warmth from the fire pit, pulling their sweaters, jackets, blankets, and other self-warming-devices tighter around them. Ned and Betty are almost on top of each other in their loveseat, the low-fifty-degree weather being the perfect excuse to snuggle up on a back patio couch and roast marshmallows. Cindy's curled up on the chair, a gray fuzzy blanket draped over her shoulders as she sips on a mug of hot chocolate, her hands glued to the sides. 

And MJ…

Well, MJ's the reason Peter's not really feeling the cold. 

She's miles away on the other end of the couch, and he wonders for a moment if there's a casual, not weird way for him to just… scoot closer to her. Her flowy, simple dress—one that reminds him of the one she'd worn in Prague back in high school—moves prettily with each bounce of her foot as her hands toy with the sleeves of her cardigan, and he catches himself thinking about how soft it looks. How soft _she_ looks.

In one of his many glances, her eyes meet his in the briefest of moments, and she bites back a smile before quickly looking away. He's unsure if her shiver is from the light breeze that picks up or not. 

Really, at this point, with his not-so-subtle glances at her from the corner of his eyes, he might as well be sitting in the actual fire pit.

It's been a week since the Incident™—the one where he's pretty sure they'd almost kissed, where they'd almost finally admitted the feelings they'd been dancing around for years under the fluorescent lights outside the campus library at 1 AM. It's just been this unspoken thing between them for so long now, at least that's the way Peter sees it; lingering touches and looks that feel a little more than platonic, laughing at jokes that are only mildly funny, teasing that makes his insides feel warm and gooey. 

Before the Incident™, he'd only been about 67% sure she liked him back, not wanting to get too ahead of himself while also having a little of that dumb optimism to cling to. But now… Now he's at a solid 80%. 

And if he's wrong, well he can just transfer universities, change his name, etc.

He really hopes he isn't, though. 

His lungs ache in the best way at how pretty she looks under the light of the fire, and he can't help but think about how her own glow when she smiles at something Ned says or laughs at one of Cindy's jokes is a thousand times brighter than the flames. 

Yes, he's dramatic. 

Yes, he's in love with his best friend. 

Finals week is over, and they're all celebrating with a nice Friendsgiving at Gwen's house before they all go home for winter break. Just a nice, cozy night in with pals. And so what if Peter spent a majority of his meal stealing more glances at Michelle from across the table, romanticizing the way she sipped at her wine? So what if the tips of his ears turned bright red when he felt MJ's gaze on him? So what if he followed the four of them out onto the porch after dinner like a lost puppy instead of staying inside and watching the Philly dog show—not football—on TV with everyone else?

Give him a break. 

Peter's been so caught up in his heart-eyes for the girl next to him that he doesn't even notice when Ned and Betty have gone inside. He only realizes they're gone when the back door clicks shut behind them, and they've already disappeared into the kitchen. Because he seems to have lost all impulse control, he steals another glance at Michelle, warmth blooming in his chest at how cute she looks sipping her own hot chocolate. He catches himself smiling, and he tears his gaze away, only to meet Cindy's knowing, teasing smile. 

_Shit._

Cindy gives a quick waggle of her brows, pointedly taking a drink from her mug, her eyes saying that yes, she _knows._

Granted, literally everyone else and their moms know, but that's not the point. 

The point is that Cindy's got this look, this conniving, mischievous look that Peter can't decide to squash or encourage. Does he want her to shut up? Does he want her to keep going with whatever sneaky plan she has? Who knows!

He's not sure how he feels about it if he's being honest. 

It could mean anything. 

Really the only thing that's absolutely a 100% guarantee is that she's up to no good.

She gives that same look to Michelle, not a second later, and he doesn't miss the glare she throws right back. 

Intimidating as MJ's _don't-you-dare_ stare is, it doesn't seem to throw Cindy off. Not even in the slightest. She's resilient, barely fighting off her sly grin as she finishes off her hot chocolate. A loud mix of cheers and boos erupts from inside the house—Peter vaguely hears the announcement that the Border Collie is the winner of the herding group, the Pembroke Welsh Corgi being a close second—and Cindy stands, all too casually stretching her arms out to her side, catching her blanket and securing it over her shoulders before it pools at her feet. 

"I'm gonna head inside," she says, her nonchalance not fooling anyone. "Don't wanna miss the Toy group."

_Oh, yeah. Sure._

"You guys good out here?" Cindy asks, and Peter catches her knowing grin once again. 

He's about to say something when MJ beats him to it. 

"Yeah, we're—I'm good," she replies, letting out a huff of what sounds like a nervous laugh. "You? Peter?"

He swears all the oxygen just fucking leaves the atmosphere when MJ looks at him. This is entirely too much conversation for something so simple as two friends sitting outside by themselves, but he can't find it in himself to care or overanalyze it.

"Yeah," he nods quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. 

Cindy's laugh comes out as a suppressed snort. "Okay. Well—" She starts for the door. Her hand stills on the handle, and she turns one last time, one eyebrow arched as she smirks at them over her shoulder. "You guys can put the fire out yourselves, right?" 

She seems to know how lame that particular joke is judging by how she bites at the inside of her cheek. 

"Alright! You guys have fun!" 

He's pretty sure that's what she says as she rushes inside, practically slamming the door shut behind her. 

Thank fucking _God_ for Cindy Moon. 

But also, screw you, Cindy Moon. 

Peter's alone with the girl of his dreams, yes. But he's also _alone_ with the _girl of his dreams_ for the first time since the Incident™. What does he even say? What's going on? Who are they? What is the meaning of life? Why are his hands so sweaty? 

(He knows why.)

Looking over at MJ proves to be a big mistake—the best kind—because he may or may not lose his breath again at the sight of her gaze turned upward to the night sky, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Gwen lives far enough outside of the city that the dusting of stars is just visible enough. The one beat that passes turns into two. Then three. Then four. It's a silence that makes his heart race, one that makes his legs bounce up and down, one that makes him want to laugh for no reason whatsoever. 

"The stars are pretty…" MJ says softly, breaking the silence. 

And Peter—now the human embodiment of the heart-eyes emoji—looks at her instead of said stars, unable to ignore the fluttering in his chest as he breathes out a dumb, "Yeah. They are."

It's then that she glances at him from the corner of her eyes, and she snorts. 

Funnily enough, Peter doesn't feel embarrassed. He cracks a smile. "What?"

"Nothing. Nothing," Michelle says behind a light laugh, shrugging, looking down at her hands in her lap as she pulls at her sleeves. "Kinda sounds like you were about to say something lame like _'you're_ pretty.'" 

She's teasing him. He knows this.

He also can't get enough of it. 

The corners of his lips are twitching into a lopsided grin, one that he doesn't try to hide as he pokes back. "Kinda sounds like you _wanted_ me to say that." 

Her jaw drops slightly at that, and he gets a quiet thrill from how she doesn't come up with a response, instead looking back up at the sky as her lips press into a shy smile. 

Peter does the same, for a moment finding himself in awe at the twinkling stars above them. 

"You are, though," he says after another beat, letting out a huff of laughter as he smooths the hair at the base of his neck. "Pretty, I mean. Beautiful."

"Oh, and that's all that matters, right?" 

Panic kicks Peter in the chest as he whips his head around to look at her. "No… No, no, no. That's not what I—" He stops, cutting himself off when he sees the teasing smirk tugging at her mouth. He narrows his eyes playfully. "You're messing with me."

She breathes out an amused huff through her nose, shaking her head as she tries to suppress her smile from getting any bigger. It feels like forever of just quietly looking at whatever constellations are up there before she speaks again, a certain shyness to her tone that makes Peter feel like he's floating on the moon. 

"Thanks," she mutters. "You're pretty, too."

"Not beautiful?" He teases back, glad that the dim lighting is hiding the way his cheeks must be turning a bright shade of pink. He doesn't give her a chance to make fun of him anymore, holding back a laugh as he rushes to continue. "No—uh… thanks. And uh, you're welcome."

The way she timidly bites at her bottom lip makes his heart feel like it's going to jump right out of his chest, the softness balanced by the ever so slightly jealous, super casual thought flashing across his mind that he wants to be the one biting that lip. 

Another silence falls between them, the air crackling, static in Peter's ears as they both continue their respective performances, pretending to stare at the sky. 

"Oh, Cassiopeia," Michelle says, her hand flying out to point out the constellation in a gesture that's too quick to be helpful. 

Peter tries his best to follow it, but he can't—maybe if he hadn't been imagining what that hand might feel like in his, he wouldn't have missed it. "Where?" He asks, his eyes searching the night sky but coming up empty. "I can't… uh… see it."

He sees her scoots over to the next cushion from the corner of his eye, closer to him, but still leaving a mile-and-a-half between them. "Right there," she says, gesturing vaguely again to what just looks like the entire sky. 

Peter's lips twist in concentration. Still nothing. "Nope."

"Look." Then, she surprises him. She scoots even closer, plopping herself down in practically the same space he's in, her knee now pushing into his leg, and he honestly feels like he might explode when she tilts her head closer to his, pointing up at the sky. "There. See?" 

Her breath tickles his cheek as she turns her head to speak.

To be honest, Peter isn't even looking for the constellation; he's too distracted by the warmth of her thigh against his, the feel of her breast pressing into his arm as she leans over him. He huffs out a laugh, mostly at himself. "No. No, I don't."

"Cool. I can't either."

_Wait, what?_

His head jerks back, his gaze snapping to hers as he fixes her with a shocked, if not a little confused grin. There's a slight bounce to her movements, giddy and nervous all at once, her eyes tinted with mischief. If there's no Cassiopeia, then why did she—

Peter looks down at his lap, squeezing his eyes shut as he holds back a laugh.

_MJ, you coy bastard._

She shifts in her (their) seat, angling her body towards him in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat. His arm falls on the back of the couch behind her as he looks back up, his stomach doing an Olympic routine at how close they are, the way she's looking at him, the way her gaze not-so-subtly dips down and back up. 

And in that next second, Peter hits cloud fifty-whatever when she closes the distance, pressing her lips to his in a tentative kiss. He doesn't have time to really live in the softness of her mouth before she pulls away, an airy smile appearing on her face as her eyes flutter open.

Peter's laugh is light as he searches her face, taking in every detail, feeling the air around them ignite as he cups her jaw with one of his hands, his thumb smoothing over her cheek. 

And he can't help it, can't wait another second. He pulls her back for more. 

This kiss starts almost as soft—with the best intentions, of course—sweet and tender in a way that makes the butterflies in Peter's stomach feel like they might all just spontaneously combust. But when she moves her hand to rest just above his knee at the bottom of his thigh, the buzzing air between them snaps. Then, it's needy, hungry, the build-up of months spent being too stupid to make a move behind it. Heat pools in his stomach when her tongue swipes over his bottom lip, when she lets out a breathy moan as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, when she doesn't waste any more time before climbing into his lap, the skirt of her long dress pooling over their legs. 

It's dizzying—almost unfairly so—the way his skin lights up when she runs her hands through his hair, tugging at the ends in a way that makes him groan into her mouth. Peter's hands are greedy as they move under her cardigan and over her waist and hips, gripping at her dress. And he swears he could listen to the quiet little gasp she does when his hands shamelessly land on her ass, the fabric of her dress sliding over her skin as he reels her in even closer, forever. 

Honestly, it's probably the best thing he's ever heard. 

No, scratch that. The whine when one of his hands reaches up to cup the underside of her breast over her dress, finding himself fiendishly delighted when he feels that she's decided to forgo a bra for the evening. That's the best. 

No, wait—Scratch _that._

It's definitely the shuddering breath she takes when his thumb swipes over her covered nipple. 

You know what? He'll just say it's every sound MJ makes. There. From now and forever. Every single one shoots sends a jolt of electric heat right to the growing hardness in his jeans anyway, so really they're all winners in his eyes. 

He mentally kicks himself when he realizes that they could have been doing this the whole time, and it absolutely boggles his mind that they were both the dummies—usually, it's just him! He wants to make up for lost time, he thinks as he detaches his lips from hers, moving to her cheeks, down to the underside of her jaw, leaving heated, starving kisses as he acquaints himself with her neck. It's intoxicating, the way he can smell the faint lavender of her shampoo, the way she tilts her head, giving him access to more bare skin, pushing her chest against his. 

Indeed, thank _God_ for Cindy Moon. 

But then, his train of thought is violently derailed when she unconsciously grinds herself down against him, gasping when the zipper of his jeans rubs against her clothed center. He moans into her neck, his hands sliding back to grip her hips and drive her back into him again, chasing that feeling. He loses his focus on her neck, pushing his head into her shoulder, too lost in just how _good_ it all feels. His breath is hot on her skin as one of his hands wanders underneath the hem of her dress, and he lets out an airy chuckle when he struggles with the amount of fabric between them. 

MJ cracks a smile as his sheepish expression when he looks up at her. Her own laugh is breathless as she gives him a hand—literally—by moving the part of her skirt that he's trapped himself in. His heart soars when she leans in to kiss the tip of his nose, an impossibly soft display of affection for the direction his hand is currently going. A groan gets caught in his throat when she chokes on a gasp, mouth parting, eyes lidded when he cups his hand over her, and his dick twitches in his jeans when he feels the damp patch in the middle of her underwear. 

_Fuck._

Her breathing grows even more ragged as he rubs her over the soft lace, fingers just barely ghosting over her lips, his touch barely there when he starts to draw a line up and down the center. The laugh she lets out when he finally brushes over her clit is half-frustrated and half-amused at his teasing. She pushes her hips into his hand, frowning playfully at the way his mouth pulls into a sly grin. 

Like he said, he wants to make up for lost time. 

But he doesn't make her wait much longer, given that he's not even sure he has that kind of self-control to keep this going. He pulls her back into a kiss with his free hand, his other hand pushing the lace aside. He has to screw his eyes shut at the feeling of her wetness coating him, gathering it and swirling it around the bundle of nerves between her thighs, and the feeling of how easily his finger slides back into her, pumping in and out in a steady rhythm. His thumb works furiously over her clit, something that he thinks is probably a mix of horniness and pride tugging at his gut when she can't seem to focus on the kiss anymore. 

And it's then when he curls another finger into her, and she starts grinding down, fucking herself on them, moaning encouragement into his neck— _fuck yes, Peter. God. Right there._ —that Peter's never been more thankful for anything. 

It's a Friendsgiving miracle. 

He almost loses himself—already painfully hard, straining against his jeans—when he feels her muscles start to flutter around him, but he keeps his pace, lining up his swipes over her clit and his brushes against _that spot_ with her heavy breaths in his ear, her racing pulse. The fire pit in front of them does nothing to help how his face is burning unbearably hot.

Then, with the _new_ greatest sound Peter's ever heard, MJ's coming with a muffled cry against his shoulder, clenching around the fingers buried in her cunt, thighs tensing as they squeeze into him. She tries to stabilize herself as she leans back to look down at him, keeping her shaky hands on his shoulders as she tries to catch her breath. 

A breathless laugh bubbles up out of her, and Peter easily mirrors her dreamy expression. She takes in a sharp breath when he pulls his fingers out of her, and she seems to hold it, smiling shyly when they see that they're glistening with her wetness. 

And Peter honestly can't help it. 

He boldly holds her gaze as he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking them clean. It's a perfectly natural reaction—not dramatic in the slightest, not overdone just to see MJ bite her lip again—when his eyes roll back into his head, moaning. "Em, you taste so fucking good."

 _"God,"_ she curses. 

And it's then that he decides he needs more. 

With more urgency then before, he reels her in for another smoldering kiss, crashing his lips against hers, all tongue and teeth as he pushes her to lay down on the couch. He prises her legs apart, settling into the oh-so-inviting space between them. Her hands claw on his shirt when his fingers return to her center, rubbing her still sensitive clit through the soaked lace of her underwear. 

"Peter's just fine," he only breaks the kiss to make the joke, coming right back to swallow her breathy whines and soft moans—as well as her snarky comeback. 

He smiles against her lips when she smacks his shoulder, unimpressed with his stupid quip. He kisses along her cheek, nose, and chin, dipping down to her neck when her head falls back against the pillow, taking his time to mark up the soft skin there, his hand still between her thighs. When he starts getting lower and lower, she looks up at him, narrowing her eyes playfully. "Where're you going?" 

Peter bites back his smirk, trying to appear as serious as possible, though it's harder than he thought, looking her dead in the face. "Still hungry."

Michelle's laugh melts into a strangled moan when he presses harder against her clit. He slides her dress up, bunching it around her hips, his jaw clenching, one of his hands reaching down to palm himself over his jeans, seeing how her underwear clings to her wet heat. He takes his time hooking his thumbs around the lace, marveling at how the fabric leaves a trail of goosebumps as he slides it down her legs, dropping them on the other end of the couch. 

He lets out a shuddering breath at the sight of her, now half-exposed to him. The shiver that ripples through her is obvious, and he rubs his hands up and down her thighs. "You cold?"

She smirks up at him. "No."

His own smile widens, tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leans down, planting a chaste kiss—too-chaste, judging by the way MJ wiggles slightly—on her left hip, this thumb smoothing over the right. His mouth travels lower, kissing and sucking gently at her inner thighs, smiling against her skin when she grips the back of his head, begging him to just get on with it. He adjusts his grip on her, hiking on of her legs over his shoulder while the other dangles over the edge of the couch. His mouth ghosts over the soft skin on either side of her entrance.

And then, he's hot against her, his tongue dipping into her before flattening out, licking a stripe along the length of her cunt. And just like before, Peter takes his time, savoring her taste, lapping, sucking, taking in her wetness. His nose bumps against her clit, and he smiles for the nth time that night at the way she tries to cover up her sound with her free hand. 

If he thought fingering MJ was great, a top-notch Friendsgiving activity, this was a whole new level. 

He's started to unconsciously grind himself against the couch as he eats her out, too lost in how good she tastes to even realize what he's doing. One of his hands grips her ass, fingers pressing into her skin, doing everything he can just to pull her closer as he sucks at her clit, the fire still crackling in front of them. He's moaning into her cunt, bringing his other hand to tease at her entrance, fingers dipping further into her with each pump. He picks up the pace, curling his fingers, his mouth and tongue working over her clit, at her rough, breathy pants, knowing she's close again. 

Michelle moves a hand down to grip his hair when he sucks even harder, gasping as she starts to come around his fingers, his name on her lips, for a second time.

He eases her through the tail of her orgasm, his pace slowing gradually. He gives a final kiss to her sensitive clit, pulling his fingers out of her, licking them clean before wiping his face on the sleeve of his hoodie. 

"Peter…" MJ draws out, a delirious smile in her tone. 

But he leans back down, planting a kiss on each thigh. "I've been thinking."

She glances up at him, quirking a brow, her chest still heaving. "Yeah?"

"If your left leg is Thanksgiving—" Another kiss. "—And your right leg is Christmas—" Then another. He stops in between her legs, leaving another. There's a stupid, cocky grin on his face, one that he certainly put there on purpose. 

And by the exasperated look on her face, she already knows the punch line.

He winks. "Can I come between the holidays?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @spiderman-homecomeme and on twitter @smhomecomeme


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